


In Confidence

by jillyfae



Category: Seven Kingdoms: The Princess Problem (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Traumatic Backstory, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-29 06:11:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8478310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: A Dowager Baroness, Nathalie is not used to having someone else's shoulder to lean on, someone in whom she can confide. Perhaps Clarmont is so easy to talk to because he never asks? But there are things she wants him to know nevertheless.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lea_hazel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lea_hazel/gifts).



Nathalie winced when Clarmont’s hand touched her shoulder.

She managed a smile an instant afterwards as she looked up and gestured him to the seat beside her, but it was too late. She was usually in better control of herself, and it had been the slightest of movements. But still it had happened, and of course he’d noticed.

Clarmont always noticed.

He would not ask, however. Would not push. Would probably never touch her again unless she quite specifically told him to do so, and that.

Was both wonderful and terrible.

He sat across from her, his movements precise and graceful, and she could not decide if he was too far away, far enough to prevent her hand from being able to reach up and brush his hair out of his eyes at whatever moment it inevitably fell forward, (not that she ever _did_ such a thing, of course, but usually he was close enough it was a temptation); or if perhaps he was still much too close, close enough that she would have to try and meet his eyes sometime soon.

_Perhaps now?_

They were as still and serious as she’d expected, and she was possessed of equally compelling and competing urges to cry and laugh.

“I am s-”

“There is no need to apologize,” Clarmont’s voice was quiet and concerned, precisely as she had expected.

“I wasn’t going to.” Nathalie lifted her chin, and waited for the lift on one side of Clarmont’s mouth to show he’d almost smiled. “But thank you, nonetheless. Most everyone else I’ve ever known would have required an apology.”

He frowned, a twist in the smooth line of his brows, and she wondered for the millionth time how he had ever survived Revaire’s Court with _that face_ , the bright and clear passage of his feelings across it, despite the fact that she’d previously watched him do it without a single concern.

_However shall we survive it again?_

She felt her fingers twist together, and frowned down at her lap. She wasn’t doing much better in terms of proper displays of emotion at this point either.

“What were you going to say then, if it wasn’t an apology?” Clarmont smiled properly this time, though it was a soft, small thing, nothing like the blinding grin that sometimes stole her breath.

Her chest ached with it anyways, and she had to swallow before she could speak.

“Do you know how old I am?”

He blinked, and shook his head the barest amount possible. Polite society tried not to talk about a woman’s age. Especially widows. Or Princesses. No one dared celebrate Gisette’s birthday without her express permission.

“Do you know how old my husband would be, were he still alive?”

Clarmont’s frown was back as he shook his head again. She had a feeling he’d figured out most of what she was about to say already.

She would not let that stop her from saying it, just this once.

“I was not yet seventeen when he approached my father for my hand.” She gave in and let her fingers tangle, gripping tightly to each other; she took a breath to keep her jaw from clenching. “He was over sixty.”

Clarmont didn’t interrupt her, didn’t say a thing, though she caught the barest sound of a grunt in the back of his throat, disgust more eloquent than anything she’d ever managed; she had to close her eyes on a potent moment of dizzy relief.

“They whisper about what a terribly contriving sort of gold-digger I am, I know.”

Clarmont’s snort of disdain was louder this time, and she felt her shoulders ease as she opened her eyes.

“I was honored by his attentions. I quite respected him. He was such a good landlord.” She felt her breath catch; almost a laugh. “I know how ridiculous that sounds, but he took care of his land, his people, his income. His tenants’ roofs were in better shape than my parent’s entire estate.”

There was half an aborted motion from across the table. Nathalie looked at Clarmont, who lifted his hand, and she nodded, and he was beside her at last, and she had his hand to hold onto, instead of just her own.

“I was quite interested in marrying him for his money, you know. It’s hard not to want a wealthy husband when you’re almost always hungry, and at least one of your siblings gets pneumonia every winter because no one has a proper _coat._ ”

She blinked, and took a breath, and felt Clarmont’s warmth beside her, still and steady.

“But it’s not as if he was the only single man in Revaire with enough money to eat. I chose him, as much as he chose me.” She paused, shrugged. It was hard to remember what she’d thought, before she knew better. “I think my mistake was equating responsibility with kindness.”

“Easy to do when you’re surrounded by the irresponsible.” Clarmont’s hand squeezed, just a little, and she considered leaning sideways until she fell against his shoulder.

She wasn’t sure she’d ever sit up again, however, so she just sighed.

“He knew all his tenant’s names, their children, where the edges of their land butted up against his neighbors, where they went to market, when they needed what supplies. He paid his bills on time! How could that not be kindness?”

“But it wasn’t.”

“No. He had very well defined, all encompassing sense of duty.” Her grip loosened, but she stopped herself before she pulled away. “He expected the same of those around him, of course.”

“Of course.” Clarmont’s voice was barely more than a breath, but it was enough, enough to keep her going.

“A wife’s duty is to produce an heir. A husband’s is to make sure she does, as soon as possible, regardless of how prepared his seventeen year old virgin bride is for the initial experience, or her opinion on its regular repetition.”

“How did you get so lucky as to be his choice?” Clarmont’s voice was dry and steady, and it was only by the tightness of his grip that she could guess how much it cost him. That he would do that for her was enough to make her eyes burn.

“Why I seduced him quite brazenly, hadn’t you heard?” She had to close her eyes before they overflowed. “Do you want to know how I seduced him?”

“If you want to tell me.”

“I listened, when he talked about his son, the one who’d died. I let him hold my hand in public, when he was sad or angry about him, but there was nothing to be done about either.” She looked down at Clarmont’s hand, still tightly wrapped around hers in her lap; her vision was blurred and watery, but not so vague as to make it impossible to see the shape of his fingers, and she let out a breath that was dangerously close to a sob.

She hadn’t cried since she was twelve. She wasn’t sure, if once she started, that she’d ever be able to stop.

“A man old enough to be my grandfather married me because I was pretty, and held his hand. Because there was no one to object. Because I was seventeen, and poor, and my parents wanted me to do so, and I doubt I could have said no even if I’d wanted to, and yet I am the one whose behavior is entirely unforgivable.”

“May I?” She looked at his face, the shine of his eyes and the lift of his free hand, and nodded. His smile was sad as his palm rested against her cheek. “You have done nothing that needs forgiveness, Nathalie, while he clearly never did anything to earn his.”

“My sisters will never have to do what I did, Clarmont. I will not allow it.”

“Nor will I.”

His hand shifted, a slow slide behind her neck, the slightest push, and she let him, just this once, let herself fall against his shoulder, let her eyes burn and her breath stutter and the whole world disappear, beyond the soft whisper of his voice, and the gentle press of his hands holding her close.


End file.
